


Chase

by EKmisao



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EKmisao/pseuds/EKmisao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Hong Kong, an information broker meets an intriguing man from the other side of the world. Their paths will cross in ways they both did not expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was an attempt at the BLushCon anthology, but, oh well. I'm a little rusty at fanfics now, and somewhat rusty on the KHR, so please forgive my mistakes. 
> 
> As usual: they're not mine. I wish they were.

 He is after me. The man in a dark foreign suit. In a city full of the same boring men, even though many wore Western clothing in the streets of Hong Kong, he stood out like a sore thumb. He was not ghostly white, as some of them were, but instead wore a paleness between theirs and ours, tempered by the sun. His suit was black as night, well-pressed even at noon. His black hair was cropped abruptly and was hidden under a stiff narrow-brimmed hat. His black shoes did not have a speck of dust on them. He looked like a mobster straight out of a detective movie.  He’s either the stupidest assassin lost in this side of the world...or the bravest. 

 I could not keep my eyes away from him. 

 I finished eating my dumplings and walked away from the foreigner’s steady gaze, and into a candy shop. I went into the deeper end of the shop, concentrating on the sweetened tamarinds. I found the mobster man entering the shop moments later, peering into some candied oranges. He nodded as I passed, exiting the shop. My suspicion was correct. 

 I smoothed down my robe, and made sure my long braid was tidy. If he was going to stare at me so much, I might as well look presentable. 

 I am known as Feng, of the wind dragon school of martial arts. My school relies on the hands, feet, and mind, using weapons as a last resort. We are changeable, yet the same. We are everywhere, and anywhere. My main weapon is my mind, though my fists and feet are known and feared. For this reason, and for many others, those who need knowledge and wisdom, about men and their dealings, about alliances and enemies, seek me. I found it odd that a foreigner would do the same. Yet a part of me wanted to feel important. 

 I rode a rickshaw, asking to be sent to the center of the marketplace, hoping to lose him there. But as I alighted, I found the dark suit and the dark hat within the afternoon crowd shopping for dinner before heading home. I spat onto the pavement in frustration as I weaved through the mess of my jostling countrymen. 

 I then rode the rail carriage, and was sure that he did not follow me onto it, also sure that he was not at any of the carriage stations. Yet when I stopped at a random station, I found his dark hat and suit, seated and having coffee. 

 The man was sinewy, well-built, small for his frame. His hat hid his eyes as he sipped his coffee, but I saw them dart left to right, evaluating his surroundings. His hands bore the calluses of one accustomed to firearms. His pistol was hidden under his suit, over his right breast. He sweated under his suit, but did not loosen his shirt nor took off his hat to fan himself. By the gods, I knew all of this in one moment, and yet I had kept staring at him, watching all of these details, and more. I needed to concentrate, and the man made me lose my concentration. 

 I needed to lose this man. He followed me too closely. Such men who followed too closely usually wanted to end my life. 

 I entered the narrow streets, now filled with people, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest. I stopped often, watching if he moved further on, thus losing my track. But when I stopped, he also stopped, and when I walked and ran, I found his shadowy strange figure following from nearby. 

 I swerved through the alleys, filled with the dwellings of the poor and the despised. I turned left, then left, then right, then left, then right, entering familiar friendly houses, exiting through windows and roofs. 

 I could not find an opening to get ahead, in order to either maim him or kill him. Yet I saw his shadow just a turn away, or just in front of me.  He did not fire his pistol at me, nor shoot at me from a distance.   

 I stopped as I reached the shoemaker district, to buy some more dumplings. He stopped as well, two food carts away from me, and bought a bowl of noodles. He kept his gaze toward me, and gave me a grin. 

 I gave myself a few moments to watch him, several moments longer than I usually give my targets, while I caught my breath.  He was awkward with his chopsticks, and slurped his soup from the edge of the bowl. He glanced toward me as he ate. 

 Not one of my countrymen has managed to track me when I decided I did not want to be tracked. He was in an unfamiliar country, even. His black suit remained pressed and neat, his hat stayed firmly on his head. As if this chase was nothing difficult for him. 

 I was impressed, and intrigued. I wanted to know this man now, not as a target, but as a colleague. I wondered how much Chinese he knew. I wondered if he was one of those silent types who just did their job and nothing more. If he was a conversationalist. How comfortable he was in that suit and that hat. I wondered…how he looked under that suit and that hat. If it were true that foreigners had hairy chests and backs. If it were true, how his own chest was. I wondered if it were true that their members were larger…and how it would be to feel such hard largeness. 

 I shook my head clear of such thoughts as I ate more dumplings. I was running for my life. I should not be thinking such thoughts of a man who might have reason to kill me. Yet I did have such thoughts, thoughts I had never had before. People in my line of work did not think of affection, of love, even of lust. Life was precious, my own most of all. 

 I turned toward the noodle shop, but the shadow was suddenly gone. 

 I lifted my hands, ready for any surprise attack. I would find him first, before he found me. 

 That was easier said than done, though, as the man’s attire blended with the coming evening darkness. I moved more slowly, seeking help from the surrounding chi more than I wanted.  I could sense the foreigner’s chi almost immediately. I took out my knife from my side, and I followed the trail of chi. 

 His chi was as strange as he, and as mysterious. It was a strong, influencing force, dominating everything it passed. It had a touch of danger, but not of pure evil. There was loneliness in it, sadness mixed with the strength. The absence of friendship, the presence of death. Rather, the overwhelming, overbearing presence of death, filling his life and surrounding his chi. 

 I wanted to correct his chi, as soon as possible. I desired this of one who may be an enemy. Yet I desired it. To learn his chi, to know more of the man and his life, to help him. I could not understand these thoughts, but I could not deny them, even in this darkness that surrounded me. 

 But the chi moved even slower than I, remaining in one place. It no longer ran away from me, but stayed. 

 And it was strongest…right here. 

 I reached out in the darkness, and snatched an arm. 

 I twisted his arm behind him and pinned him to the wall. With the other arm he pointed a pistol at my head. Nonetheless, the chase was over. 

 “Parlez-vous Francais? English?” I asked, pressing my knife at his neck. 

 “English, or Italian,” he replied in the first language. 

 With a flick of my wrist I made him drop the pistol. I turned him around, keeping the knife in place. “Why are you following me?” 

 “I wanted you to follow me,” he said. 

 I stared at him, almost released my hold on him. “What?”

 He grinned. “Your reputation precedes you, signore. The word is that you are an excellent information broker, a dependable spy, a reluctant but capable killer. I figured that the easiest way to meet you in this city is to catch your attention. Did I do a good job?” 

 I pressed the knife deeper. Duped by a foreigner, on my own domain. Embarrassing. “Your name, sir,” I said. The space between my legs stiffened.  

 He smiled, confident and taunting. “Only in exchange for yours.” 

 “The foreigners say my name as Fon,” I said.  

 He chuckled. “Fair is fair. They call me Reborn.” 

 “What do you want, sir?” I asked. 

 “Information about the Red Snake triad,” the Italian man said. “And you?”

 “This.”   

 I tilted my head, and touched my lips to his. 

 I tasted bitter coffee and soup from cheap noodles. I savored gunpowder and old sweat, with no pungent European scent. I expected him to recoil, to shoot me in the abdomen, to send me to my ancestors. But he remained still, keeping his pistol to his side, his other hand at his waist, waiting for me to finish.  

 I withdrew. I licked away the last of the coffee on my lips. “A...custom, it is a custom here,” I said. “Forgive my...impulsive-ness.”  

 The man hid his eyes under his hat as he smirked to his sideburns. He cleared his throat. 

 “It’s a custom in Italy, too, signore,” he said.  “One I am familiar with.” 

 He patted a hand through my garments. I paled as he felt my hardness there. I blanched as he pressed, sending a wave of sensation that made me lose proper judgment. I began to feel drunk on this man. 

 “Shall I negotiate for a trade?” he asked, as I felt his large hand reaching through my pants, and pressing once more. 

 “It could be arranged,” I managed to say, before I surrendered to the foreigner, savoring the coffee in his lips again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this got written longhand during a semi-boring seminar. 
> 
> I'm having a rather terrible week, even if I'm glad my brother's around (he works abroad). 
> 
> Sorry, I make no sense. I do hope you like this chapter. 
> 
> As usual, they're not mine. 
> 
> The NSFW starts here.

I had no part in it at all. I only led him to a place where there would be no prying eyes. 

I continued to kiss him, and he continued to let me do so, while he urged me on by carressing me there, stiffening it further. I released once in that alley, carressed by a foreign darkness hidden in the shadows, trembling from a sensation I had never felt in my life. I became hungry for more, and he was ready to indulge me, as I led him through alleys, to a place only I knew, to a room where I hid from all who wanted me.   

And as I locked myself into that room, I lost all sense of time, and space, and alliance, and propriety. 

I immediately sought his lips again as the door shut, soothing my rising hardness by touching it near his own. He let me kiss him, as I was the only in control, even if I was the one pinned to the door and his body was the over me. 

I found myself surrendering to his ministrations, submitting to his will. I could only undress when he wanted me to, to move to his rhythm, to gasp to his movements. 

He undressed me fully, even loosened my braided long hair. I knew I was bare, defenseless, and careless, but at the moment it did not matter. He only unbuttoned his shirt, and lowred his trousers. His hair was thick everwhere, where it mattered. It all had the scent of foreign sweat, mixed with local dust and grime. Pungent and spicy, but not unpleasant. The hair rubbed against me as he stroked, a rough blanket. His hands were competent, all throughout the proceedings. He rubbed me precisely where it brought pleasure, at all the right moments. He entered me without roughness, he took himself away without pain. 

This was not his first time, and it would not be his last. Yet there were moments when I thought that his motions had no feelings to them; that to him, this was a job, a mission, a way to reach me. 

But the pleasure he gave me, it made me forget, and ignore. 

 

* * *

I woke up to a room already hot with the sunlight through the window. I was covered only with the blanket. He was already fully dressed, in the dark suit that initially caught my attention. 

He turned as I stirred. "You don't have coffee," he said with a deep frown. 

"In this country? There is." Did I not seem him have coffee yesterday. I even tasted it on him. 

"English, and French," he said. "That's not coffee." 

"I do not understad," I said. 

"It's like your despicable tea." He sat down near the window, both hiding from clear sight and keeping a keey eye at the street below. "Many kinds. Plenty of them tasteless or too sweet." 

"Ah." I nodded, and stored it in my mind. I began to fumble for my trousers and my underwear. "Do you..." 

"Not usually," he immediately answered. "More often with women." 

"Ah." I sighed. 

"You don't have coffee." He sighed and frowned again. 

"I may know where you can get an..." I searched my memory for the word, "...an espresso, yes?" 

He did not answer, but the slight, grateful upward curve of mouth was enough for me. 

 

* * *

I was always wandering through the streets and alleys of my city, to follow where the winds took me. I did not always do this to seek information, merely to observe life. 

I did know a small shop, run by an Italian man, who served some strong and bitter brews which some people seemed to like. At this time of the midday, the few tables were filled with foreigners. 

I had thought he would be more cautious in the presence of people who may remember his face. But after savoring the strong coffee air, he strolled into the shop. He kept his hat on his head. 

He rapidly glanced through the coffeemakers and stared at the ingredients past the counter. He nodded once and smiled to his ears. He ordred a certain kind of espresso. Then he looked at me. He stared at me. 

There was no escape then. I smiled, cautiously. "Whatever you suggest, sir," I said with a bow. 

"A cappucino," he ordered. "And breakfast for both of us." 

We sat where he had a view through the window, and a view of the all the other customers. I immediately noticed that we were the same, he and I. Our eyes and ears were alert to our surroundings, our motions never betraying our awareness. 

I remained seated well, out of habit and as a means to focus. He slouched as he sipped his coffee. He crossed his legs. His head turned this way and that. He glanced at his watch. He grinned at me. He was quite the character, this rough Italian. And I found myself interested in him again. 

The bitterness of his brew wafted to my nose as we ate. The concoction he gave me was bittersweet with generous hints of spice. It was not displeasing, but I was used to oolong and found even this weaker brew pounding on my mind, making it too vigilant. But after such a night as I had, I found it useful. 

He finished his meal by lowering his cup to the table with a clatter. He stood up. 

"Ciao," he said. "I have to work now." 

I lifted my head, with thinly-veiled longing. "I thought you seek my...knowledge." 

"Not at the moment." He smirked. 

"Will I...see you again, though?" I hated myself for immediately losing the negotiation, by sounding so needy. 

"I have ways of finding you." He smiled and tapped his hat, and walked to the door without another look behind.  

He turned right as he left the shop. 

I rose to find him, but even his shadow was gone.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it has been two years.

He said he was seeking information about the Red Snake. That would be both easy and difficult. 

There are, of course, many triads in Hong Kong, and several that matter. Some dabble in everything, while others specialize. One needed to be aware of who dealt in weapons, talents, death, opium, marijuana, heroin, ice, jewelry, debt management, property control, business establishment, business manipulation. 

The foreigner was fair-skinned, but not exactly white. He said he was Italian. The mediterraneans tend to be among the fair-skinned who are not clueless, who are toughened by life and hardship. His bearing was of one who is part of the underworld. He was familiar with the dark, acquainted with the ruthless. 

That a foreigner was inquiring into a strong triad meant its fangs had bitten into Italy. This was nothing new: there was a Chinatown in every major world city, after all. My people were everywhere that work could be had. But if the mafia was inquiring, they must be raising trouble. 

One thinks like this while having jasmine tea, to help calm the mind from an assault of…cap-pu-cino, I think it was called. 

He likes the espresso kind. I shall remember. 

I let the winds take me into the known haunts of the Red Snake: the acupuncture clinic that fronted a pleasure store; the herbal medicine shop that fronted an opium source. I finally reached the apartment building that collected the rent from other apartments. 

I chatted with a friend there, who discreetly gave me the tidbits that kept me fed. One of the branch heads had moved to Sicily, ostensibly to work in the olive farms. It was not much, but at least it was something to get me started. 

………………………………

I felt a terrifying chi permeate the room I reserved to myself. It overpowered and seeped past the crack under the door. Yet the chi felt strangely familiar. And foreign. 

I took out a hand bomb. I placed it in my left hand as I knocked with my right. 

As expected, there was no response. 

The chi past the door darkened and strengthened, but grew more familiar. I heard the click of a pistol. 

I knocked again, and spoke in Cantonese, making my inflection and intention clear to a foreigner. "May I come in?" 

The lightening of the chi, and the re-clipping of the pistol, I surmised as a good sign. 

I opened the door. 

I found him at the wall near it. He smirked as he returned the pistol to its holster. 

"It is dangerous for foreigners here," I said in English. "There are many eyes and ears." 

"As there are everywhere in the world," he replied with another smirk. 

He sat cross-legged on the floor, at the only table in the room. He remained in his dark suit and brimmed hat. He ignored me as I kneeled and sat near him. 

I watched him rapidly disassemble his pistol into its many parts. I watched him stare into each small piece, then clean them with care. Then I watched as he brought all the pieces together again, formed a pistol once more, and aimed it at a lizard on the wall. 

I quietly gave him what little I knew, and whatever I gleaned from the winds. He nodded, but said nothing, placing the pistol back in its holster under his suit. 

"Maybe if I knew precisely what you needed, I may prove more useful," I said. 

He clinched his fist and grit his teeth. He stared into the depths of my eyes with menace. 

"I need a target." 

"…Target?" I asked. 

"There have been deaths. Some were not even part of our family. I need a target." 

I understood the jargon, for the triads used it as well. The branch you chose to affiliate with was your family, bonded in blood. But I sensed a need for vengeance, rather than a need to kill. A rather unusual thing to sense in a man clearly used to killing. 

"My family does not kill to better its position or its interests. It kills only when necessary, to protect its own." 

I looked at him well, remembering the body beneath the dress shirt and the suit. "So. You are your family's killer." 

His eyes bored into me again. "I am its protector."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cantonese , Hong Kong natives use the Cantonese version of Chinese. While I suspect Fon would probably call it Guangdong speech in his head, as this is an English story and I don't know Chinese, I decided to play safe and stick with the official English rendition.


End file.
